


The Wrong Side of Heaven

by BelovedFool



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedFool/pseuds/BelovedFool
Summary: Lucifer and Gabriel are trapped in the same vessel and Michael summons Crowley for help in separating them; chaos ensues. Contains OCs, as well as lovely canon characters. Please read and review! This is a work in progress.





	1. The Sword of Heaven Screws Himself

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my friends Abby, Meg, Ria, Shauna, and Kels for their contributions.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael summons Crowley to help separate Luci and Gabe, which makes Lucifer very unhappy. Gabriel isn't doing too great.

     Crowley heard the beginning of the summoning ritual, as he always did, but he knew he had time. He liked to let the summoner finish their little chant for three reasons. One: it was amusing to listen to them stumble over the foreign words; two: he made sure they used up their materials, which was inconvenient for them; and three: the dramatic entrance in the ensuing puff of smoke was always worth it.

     Because time passed much slower up there than it did in Hell, Crowley poured himself a drink and downed it, savouring the taste of centuries-old scotch. Setting the crystalline glass back down, he stood, straightening his jacket and brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders. As the summoner finished the incantation and presumably ignited the materials, Crowley felt that lovely tugging feeling in the pit of his stomach and smiled, letting the magic whisk him away.

     “Well, hello,” Crowley called out cheerfully, though the words lost a bit of their gusto when he realized to whom he was speaking. A man stood in front of him: short dark hair, young, lean, wearing a leather jacket—John Winchester, a man out of his time. Looking at his face, Crowley saw the angelic glow issuing from his aura, but he had already known he was meeting with Michael, the sword of Heaven.

     Normally faced with this situation, or anything like it, the demon would have immediately teleported away. However, the angel reached out a steadying hand. “Wait,” he said in a voice much softer than the one John Winchester had used in life.

     “What, so you can smite me?” Crowley asked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow.

     “No,” said Michael steadily. Everything he did had always been infuriatingly steady. “I wish to make a deal.”

     Crossing his arms, Crowley said simply, “I’m listening.” He wondered what an angel could possibly need with the King of Hell. As a general rule, angels were more powerful than demons.

     “As you must know, Lucifer and Gabriel occupy the same vessel.”

     “Bunk buddies,” Crowley agreed, pulling a phrase from Lucifer’s vocabulary; he had always gotten the impression that the fallen angel was oddly proud of his colloquialisms.

     Michael ignored the slang, dismissing it with a slight frown. “Because they are in such close proximity, each is subject to the others’ thoughts and feelings. I fear they will tear each other apart.”

     “What do you want _me_ to do about it?” the demon asked in irritation.

     “Can you separate them? I know demons have access to spells that angels cannot even fathom.

     Crowley thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe I’ve got just the thing.” He smiled wickedly.

     Michael nodded, steeling himself for what came next. “What do you want in return?’

     “I’ve heard that the big quest for this year is to kill Zachariah.” He had more than heard.

     When Mary Winchester died, she had been pregnant with a baby girl. While Mary’s soul was put to rest, her daughter had been raised and trained by the angels: particularly Zachariah, who had taken a disturbing fancy to Mary. Now an adult, the daughter, Danielle, had been sent to Earth to carry out the angels’ will, though this put her out of Zachariah’s immediate reach. Mostly. She had attempted to strike a deal with Gabeifer for help to kill the archangel, a meeting which Crowley had interrupted with his own proposition. Unfortunately, he had been chased off by the double angel before he could solidify anything.

     “My terms are: I separate Luci and Gabe and make sure they both stay alive,” Crowley continued. “And _you_ make sure that Zachariah gets killed—”

     “You don’t want my soul?” Michael interrupted, confused.

     “I’m not finished!” Crowley snapped, holding up a finger, which he then tipped toward Michael. “You make sure Zachariah gets killed,” he repeated softly, “and after that, you’re _mine_. You do my bidding. No questions asked.” It was a bold move, even for him. He wouldn’t have even let it cross his mind if he didn’t know how much Michael cared for his family.

     The angel hesitated, and then sighed. “I…fine. Whatever it takes to save my brothers. But I must ask…why? Why not just take my soul?”

     “Aside from the unpleasant burning sensation it would give me?” Crowley asked with a raised eyebrow, surprised at Michael’s compliance. He figured he would have had to push a little. “Because I wouldn’t know what to do with it. What’s the use in riding a dragon, my dear, if you’ve not had someone tame it? I could seriously hurt myself. Besides, this way you get to stay alive for longer than ten years. Sound like a plan?”

     Michael sighed again. Lucifer and Gabriel would be furious, he knew—Lucifer especially. But he had to do this. His brothers were his responsibility, and he would save them. “What do you need?” He wouldn’t give the demon the satisfaction of verbally agreeing with him.

     “Well, first off…” Crowley snapped his fingers, transporting them both to an empty warehouse he sometimes used as a garrison. “We do this on my turf. Second, I need your blood. It’s the only thing powerful enough to contain those two. This wouldn’t work if you weren’t the…top dog.” He produced a wooden bowl and a ceremonial knife, seemingly from nowhere, and handed them to Michael. The angel took them wordlessly, made an incision in his forearm, and began to bleed.

     “You’re certain they’ll be safe?” Michael asked, his eyes on the task at hand.

     Crowley dismissed the gesture with a wave of his hand: Michael could interpret that however he wanted. “Making a deal with an angel is a tricky thing. Takes a little extra…umph. After all, what’s to stop you from killing me once I’ve performed my bit?” He opened his jacket, producing one of his customary nine-foot contracts and unrolling it with a flourish. He laid the bottom on the table between them, discarding the rest of the parchment over his shoulder. “Your blood. Your feather. Sign.”

     Michael retracted his arm and willed his vessel to heal immediately. Plucking a snow-white feather from his wing, he dipped it in the dark red liquid and scribbled his name in Enochian along the dotted line. “It is done.”

     Crowley nodded once, waiting a moment for the blood to dry before rolling up the parchment and making it disappear. “You know that’s not how you seal a deal…” He shook his head at Michael with a disappointed _tsk_ ing noise. “That was just insurance.”

     The archangel grimaced. He knew _exactly_ what was coming. Crowley was staring at him bemusedly, forcing him to have to initiate it. Reluctantly, Michael stepped forward, placed his hands on the demon’s shoulders, and pressed their lips together.

     Crowley kissed back forcefully, lingering for longer than necessary; he enjoyed Michael’s discomfort. After a few moments he pulled away, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Not bad, for an angel. It’s been a while since I’ve kissed one.”

     “The deal is made; get on with it.” Michael let go of the demon’s shoulders, stepping away in disgust. Crowley shrugged, reaching for the bowl sitting on the table. He dipped his fingers into the warm blood, drawing a circle of binding runes on the floor in the centre of the room. They were much more complex than a Devil’s Trap, and they would not render the angels powerless, only keep them from crossing. For his purposes, however, they were much more effective than Holy Oil. Once finished, he turned back to Michael. “Bring ‘em in,” he ordered, quickly sketching a banishing sigil in the same blood on the tabletop.

     Michael closed his eyes, trying to ignore the demon now cleaning his hands with a silken handkerchief. _Lucifer…Gabriel. Whichever one of you is in control…please. I need you._ When he opened his eyes, Gabriel’s vessel was standing before him in the middle of the freshly drawn circle.

     Gabriel, who had been in favour of blowing off Michael’s summons, hissed at Lucifer in his head. _What the Hell is this? I told you we should have stayed away._

 _Be quiet,_ Lucifer ordered. He locked eyes with his brother. “What is this, Michael?” He spied Crowley standing a few feet back. “What did you _do?_ ”

     Michael looked down, ashamed. “You are going to kill each other, Lucifer. I am simply protecting you.”

     Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “You made a _demon deal?_ ” he hissed. “What are you _thinking,_ Michael?”

     “What sort of vessel would you like, Luci?” Crowley asked with mock politeness, stepping forward. “Male? Female? Young? Old?” He snapped his fingers and a man appeared through a doorway at one end of the room. He was tall and middle-aged with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, dressed smartly in a pinstriped suit. With a blank look in his eyes, he stepped into the circle and stood at attention. Crowley smiled. “Classic devil, isn’t he?”

     _Lucifer, don’t listen to him! Michael!_ Gabriel called desperately, hoping to drag his brothers’ attention away from each other. _Michael, please. We don’t need this! **Michael!**_

     Ignoring Gabriel’s frantic screams, Lucifer raised his hand to consume the man beside him in flames. “I think you’re forgetting who I am, Crowley,” he sneered. He had always hated this upstart, even more so now that he had taken over Hell. “I cannot be held by a mere human vessel.”

     “I _know_ that, you arse,” the King of Hell snarled. “You really think I’ve gotten to where I am without knowing that Satan can’t be stored in an arbitrary meat suit? That was a _vampire_ vessel, dear. A perfect paradox. His regeneration keep you from blowing him apart, and your presence keeps him from having to drink blood.”

     Gabriel struggled to take control of the vessel. “What’re the terms of the deal? What’d you make Mikey do?”

     “Oh, nothing,” said Crowley with a wicked grin. “Just…made him succumb to my will for the next… _forever._ ” He brought forth another vampire vessel, this one a woman with long dark hair, garbed in a red evening dress. Her lips were full, her skin dusky, her eyes a smoky grey. “The seductress,” Crowley announced proudly. “Another devilish disguise, I think.”

     Gabriel could hardly hear Crowley’s gloating; a rage not entirely his own was mounting in the back of his head, causing a buzzing in his ears. He felt Lucifer push past him once again.

     “You _enslaved_ my brother?” he asked with deadly quiet. He was furious with Crowley, to be sure, but he felt a certain irritation towards Michael as well. This wasn’t his problem, yet he had allowed himself to be serviced to a demon to solve it.

     “Struck, signed, and sealed with a kiss,” Crowley confirmed with a nod. Michael refused to look at his brothers, his Grace shrinking away in shame. He was beginning to regret his decision.

     _Ugh,_ Gabriel remarked to Lucifer. _Did **not** wanna picture that._ In case Lucifer hadn’t gotten the image, Gabriel projected to through his whole head, determined to share his suffering with someone.

     Lucifer fixed Crowley with a menacing glare, but there was nothing he could do. Michael had effectively tied all three of their hands and empowered the enemy. Crowley held the fallen angel’s gaze, daring him to look away. Lucifer refused to back down: Crowley may have beaten him, but he hadn’t broken him.

     The demon finally broke the eye contact by looking to Michael. “Step into the circle please, love. Unless you’d like to be sent straight to Home, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars, when I blow these two apart.”

     Lucifer pursed his lips. “You’re going to banish us?” Gabriel made a noise in the back of his head. _He just called_ _Michael ‘love.’ That’s disgusting. I mean, ‘dear’ or ‘darling’ is one thing, but ‘love’—_

     “There’s nowhere for us to go,” continued Lucifer, still ignoring his irritating younger brother.

     “That’s the point,” said Crowley dryly, quickly becoming bored with the whole conversation. “It’s like trying to summon a demon that’s already in a Devil’s Trap. Lucky for us, the blast’ll be enough to eject you from poor Gabe’s noggin and into this lovely lady.”

     Michael, who hadn’t responded to anything else, dejectedly stepped into the circle at  Crowley’s earlier request. He looked only at the King of Hell, not deserving to meet his brothers’ eyes.

     “Thank you,” said Crowley gruffly, slamming his hand into the banishing sigil behind him. He averted his gaze as a blinding light filled the room.

     The slam of flesh against wood filled Gabriel’s head and grew to a deafening shriek. He felt a burning pain in his head and his chest; his Grace felt as though it was being ripped in half. He closed his eyes to shut out the light and felt his brother being dragged away from him.

     Lucifer screamed as he was ejected from Gabriel’s vessel. He floated free for a moment, unable to break the circle, then was slammed with jarring impact into the new body; the force knocked the vessel prone.

     Michael felt an incredible pressure all over, squeezing his Grace. There was nowhere for him to go, however, and as the light dimmed, the pressure decreased. Michael blinked and looked around. Gabriel was prone at the edge of the circle and Lucifer was sitting up slowly, rubbing an aching head.

     “It worked,” said Crowley, throwing a triumphant smile at the angels. His gaze slid over Gabriel’s unconscious form and he chose not to comment on that little bug.

     “You said he would be safe,” said Michael sadly, looking from his brother to the demon. He would never forgive himself if he was responsible for Gabriel’s death. He was supposed to take care of him, of all of them.

     “I said he’s stay _alive,_ ” Crowley corrected him. “And he’s obviously very much alive,” he added, noting Gabriel’s even breathing.

     “Let us out of here: we’re done,” spoke Lucifer from the other side of the circle. She had stood, and her voice came out low and sultry, yet with imposing authority.

     “Michael can let you out,” the demon replied flippantly. “It’s his blood, he can break the circle. Besides, I’d like to get a head start away from your unholy wrath. Michael dear, I’ll come pick you up when Zachariah is dead. _Hasta la vista._ ” He disappeared with a little wave, taking the bowl of Michael’s blood with him.


	2. Lucifer Does Something Bad (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angels tell Danielle about Michael's deal, Zachariah is summoned.

     It would be sooner than he thought that Crowley appeared again. In the meantime, Michael and Lucifer hastened back to the hut with the unconscious Gabriel. Michael started to say something a few times, but Lucifer never even looked at him. He figured it was wisest to stay silent. Upon reaching the hut, Lucifer laid Gabriel down on a couch by the window and sat down, staring outside blankly.

     The noise downstairs woke Danielle. She rolled out of bed, landing silently on the balls of her feet, and slipped her angel blade out from beneath her pillow before creeping downstairs: she wasn’t sure who to expect. Danielle relaxed visibly when she saw the angels in the living room. The tip of the blade lowered and she cleared her throat slightly to announce her presence. She wasn’t sure who the woman was, but if she was with Michael and Gabriel, she could be trusted.

     Michael turned when he sensed Danielle approaching and crossed the room to meet her before she could enter. He felt it would be best to explain this on his own grounds. Unfortunately, she had no such ideas. Unfortunately, she had no such ideas and slipped into the room past him.

     “What happened?” Danielle asked in concern. She could tell something was wrong, and she hated to see the angels suffering. They were practically her brethren; she could read them well.

     “Gabriel and Lucifer have been saved. That is all that matters,” said Michael simply. He wasn’t eager to share the rest of the incident with her—fortunately, he was spared that.

     “Michael screwed himself,” said Lucifer, breaking from her trance and turning to look at Danielle. She raised an eyebrow, daring her brother to argue.

     “Lucifer?” Danielle asked, recognizing the tone with which the fallen angel spoke, as well as the fire behind her eyes. Lucifer confirmed it with a nod.

     “He sold himself to Crowley,” she continued in a highly dissatisfied tone, “to fix a problem that was none of his business.”

     Danielle turned towards Michael, sadness and dismay in her eyes. “You sold your soul?”

     “No,” he said with a simple shake of his head. “I sold my services. The King of Hell has no use for an angel soul.” He paused. “I must also confront Zachariah.”

     “To kill him?” asked Danielle. While she had been trying to break free from her mentor, the thought of anyone fighting him brought a shudder. In other instances of rebellion, Zachariah had not hesitated in hurting her.

     “Yes.”

     “I see…” She bit her lip and looked away, glancing briefly at Gabriel and Lucifer. The latter was once again glaring at Michael. “I want to help,” Danielle continued, trying to break the tension.

     “I am not sure—” Michael began, but was cut off by Lucifer.

     “You can get him here, can you not?” she said. “You’re supposed to be his apprentice; you can call him.”

     “I…I guess I can,” Danielle nodded and swallowed nervously. The angels stared at her in silence. “You mean…now?”

     “No time like the present,” Lucifer confirmed with a sigh. There was no sense in putting it off: if they moved now, Zachariah would most likely be caught unaware. Besides, she didn’t know how soon Crowley expected Michael to kill Zachariah, but if it wasn’t fast enough for the petty demon, he would reverse the effects of his spell. Lucifer didn’t think Gabriel could survive that. None of it mattered: Michael would be Crowley’s bitch anyways. Better to get it over with.

     Michael seemed to agree. The faster Zachariah was disposed of, the faster Heaven would be safe, as well as his brothers. As far as he was concerned, he was already under Crowley’s command, Zachariah’s murder being simply his first task. He nodded at Danielle. “Yes. Now. But not here. Gabriel is vulnerable.”

     Lucifer and Danielle looked back to Gabriel, lying comatose on his back, his breathing alarmingly shallow. Unbeknownst to any of them, Gabriel was actually conscious of the situation around him; his Grace was simply too weak for him to respond. He wanted to do something: speak, plan, fight, help take his dick brother down—anything. But the Trickster was trapped inside his own head, screaming as loud as he could in the hopes that maybe someone would hear him. His hopes went unfulfilled.

     “No,” said Lucifer. She held her head high as she looked at Michael; now that they were on the same side, she had no reason to fear him. “We face Zachariah here. On our grounds. On our terms. And we stay here to _protect_ Gabe. Zachariah’s not dumb: if we leave Gabe alone, he’ll send someone after him.”

     The others were quiet, thinking over this. Gabriel wanted to punch something: he felt so damn _useless_ , and what was worse, they were letting his presence affect both their strategy and their chances. Danielle was subdued, looking down at the ground and fidgeting with the end of her blonde braid nervously. Eventually she looked up timidly and gave Lucifer a small nod. Michael stood completely still. He had to admit, Lucifer’s logic was sound. He blinked once, slowly, in her direction—one could almost _imagine_ a nod—in approval. Lucifer, who had always been well attuned to Michael, understood immediately. “Good,” she said firmly and looked to Danielle. “Summon him. Now.”

     Dani nodded and took a deep breath, stepping hesitantly into the centre of the room. “Zachariah…?” she began faintly. “Zachariah, I…have something to report.”

     Silence.

     Then, “Hullo, kiddos!” in that cringe worthy, false, gleeful tone.

     Lucifer glanced up in, startled, and both Dani and Michael whipped around to see Zachariah leaning against the doorframe. He rocked easily to his feet and continued in the same fake voice, “Nice of you to invite me to the party…though I don’t appreciate the tardiness.” No one moved as Zachariah sauntered over to Danielle, glaring down at her with a cruel glee behind his eyes. “Well? Make your report, girl.”

     Michael watched the scene passively. Every time they met, there seemed to be something darker and darker about Zachariah. It was disconcerting, but perhaps they could work around it. Both he and Lucifer were stronger than Zachariah and if he valued his own life, he would stand down.

     Danielle opened her mouth to answer, but suddenly found she lacked the air. Even though they had the advantage, she was still terrified. She swallowed nervously, wetting her throat so she could speak. “I…” she breathed in a shaky voice.

     Faster than any human could have, Zachariah whipped his hand across, striking Danielle a vicious backhand. She crumpled to the ground, tasting blood. Lucifer jumped to her feet, but Michael was faster, stepping forward to grab Zachariah’s shoulder. “Stop this!” he commanded, his fingers digging into the other angel’s arm.

     Danielle struggled to her knees, but was unable to get any farther: Zachariah seemed to be holding her down with the power of his mind. He plucked Michael’s hand from his arm with fastidious distaste. “Please. You’ll wrinkle my suit.” Pause. “This isn’t your business, Michael. How about you just stick to what you know? Blind slaughter. You may outrank me, brother, but I’m a thinker. You were born only to fight.” Turning back to Danielle, he grabbed her by the throat.

     Lucifer was in shock, staring at Zachariah with a slight curl to her lip. There was something seriously _wrong_ with him. Not even Lucifer herself had gone to these measures: Zachariah appeared to enjoy his own cruelty. A small crease between her brows as she considered whether Zachariah had some dark new power of which they were unaware.

     “I just can’t believe,” said Zachariah through a giggle, “that you thought you could stand up to me.” He concentrated his Grace into his hand, the heavenly fire burning Danielle’s flesh. He didn’t do it all at once; the heat steadily rose, becoming gradually more unbearable. Danielle was reluctant to give him the satisfaction of showing weakness, but the pain was excruciating. She let out a choked sob that turned into a cry and grasped at Zachariah’s wrist, trying to get him to stop.

     Michael had had enough. He thrust his hand towards Michael, fingers splayed, sending the other angel crashing to the far wall and bruising his Grace. Danielle quickly scrabbled backwards out of Michael’s way as he advanced on Zachariah, eyes bright with holy light.

     “Michael…Michael,” Zachariah addressed him pleadingly, giving him the most innocent smile he could muster. It looked slimy to everyone else present. “ _Think_ for a moment. _Think_. She is an asset of Heaven, a soldier—like us. And like us, she must be punished for disobeying.”

     “She has disobeyed only your orders, not those of Heaven,” said Michael, standing over Zachariah.

     The lesser angel laughed. “Don’t you get it? I _am_ Heaven. While all of you are down here consorting with humans, _I_ take care of business upstairs, _I_ oversee the garrisons, _I_ provide guidance, _I_ make the rules.” He continued to laugh softly, as if amused by his own competence.

     A small crease appeared between Michael’s brows. “You’re insane,” he said softly, shaking his head sadly.

     “Of course you would think that,” spat Zachariah. “You. Who was made to be perfect. You, who—”

     “Shut up,” snapped Lucifer, stepping forward once more. “Do you have any idea how stupid you sound? You’re talking out of your ass.” She came up beside Michael and glared down at Zachariah, who blinked at her innocently.

     Danielle had managed to stand, the pain having died down significantly, and she was braced against the arm of the couch. Michael was dimly aware of this and turned to go to her; as he did he reached towards Zachariah with his mind, dampening his power. Danielle fell gratefully into Michael’s arms and he turned his full attention towards her, passing a hand over her throat to heal her.

     Lucifer had been left alone with Zachariah, who looked less than thrilled about that fact. He tried to push himself to his feet, but Lucifer put a hand to his forehead to hold him down. She got close to his face, staring into his eyes with cold malice. “You know there’s something wrong with you when you disgust the Devil,” she snarled, and drew her blade, jamming it into Zachariah’s throat and into the wall behind him in one smooth stroke. Zachariah’s mouth fell open and his Grace burst from him, illuminating the room. Danielle screwed her eyes shut as she felt it brush over her; Zachariah’s death seemed brighter than most, the light stinging through her eyelids.

     Michael turned in astonishment. He knew Lucifer was rash, but he hadn’t expected her to kill Zachariah, at least not without consulting him first. He caught the dying light in Zachariah’s eyes, just as Lucifer yanked the blade from his throat. Zachariah slumped to the floor, mouth slightly agape and sockets smoking. Michael’s gaze lifted from the corpse to Lucifer, who was cleaning her blade on her victim’s suit. She twirled the blade before putting it away and fixed Michael with a challenging stare, raising an eyebrow. “What? The guy was seriously messed up.”

     Trapped deep inside his vessel, Gabriel wanted to scream. It was bad enough that there were feuds and wars between the brothers, but now they were killing each other again? This was what Gabriel had wanted to get away from when he left the first time, and now he was forced to sit there and listen. Part of him wanted to punch Lucifer. Yes, Zachariah had been way out of line, but he had been subdued. He could have been handled in a much different way. Desperately, Gabriel raged inside his mind, but not even a finger on his vessel twitched.

     Lucifer felt a jerk in the pit of her stomach, just to the left of her Grace. She realized in shock that it was Gabriel, and that she must have taken some of his Grace with her when she was expelled. It would take a very long time for him to heal that way, if he did at all, but his influence would fade from Lucifer over time. She stepped away from Zachariah, giving him no further thought, and addressed Michael. “Now what?”

     “Now, I…report to Crowley,” said Michael with some difficulty. Little did he know that the demon was well aware of the whole situation. Once Crowley had returned to Hell, he had used some of the remainder of Michael’s blood to cast a telepathy spell, creating a link between himself and the angel. Because it was a witch spell, it awarded certain benefits to the caster, especially considering the power of the blood used. Crowley could not only communicate mentally with Michael, he also had access to his senses and memories. Since he had completed the spell, he had been nestled in the back hollow of Michael’s mind, watching the events transpire.

     “Oh yeah. Of course. Your new _master_ ,” Lucifer sneered in disgust, the corner of her lip curling.

     “No need to be so venomous about it, dear,” said Crowley cheerfully, appearing behind them. As Michael turned, Crowley caught his eye and winked.

     “Hullo, love.”   


	3. Danielle Tries (and Fails) to Negotiate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danielle tries to help Mikey out, with some faintly embarrassing results, but manages to comfort Lucifer at least a little bit. Crowley tests out Michael's capabilities.

     Gabriel was just as disgusted the second time he heard Crowley call Michael ‘love’ as he had been the first time. The only difference was that this time, he couldn’t express his revulsion. Fortunately, Lucifer did it for him.

     “Alright, I’m gonna stop you right there. Your little pet names are already annoying enough, but there is no way you are gonna call Michael _any_ of them. Got it?” Her posture was rigid and she stared at Crowley with the built-up hatred of centuries.

      The demon, however, appeared to be unaffected by her. “I’ll call him whatever I want,” he said with a little shrug. “He’s _my_ angel. And seeing how much ‘love’ bothers you, well…Love it is.” He said the word with an important air, as if it was a proper name.

     “I could kill you without batting an eye,” Lucifer growled through clenched teeth.

     “You could,” Crowley agreed. “But you’d have to go through your brother to do it. That,” he snapped his fingers, “is an order.”

     Michael felt a little jolt at the back of his head, signifying that the order was in place. He knew he would have to follow it if he wanted his brothers to stay safe. The angel wasn’t exactly sure how Crowley had rigged it, but he was sure that the demon had guaranteed the spell would be reversed, even if he died. “Please don’t, Lucifer,” he said quietly, “I have no desire to use force.”

     Lucifer balled her fists and ground her teeth, but there was nothing she could do. She glanced quickly at Gabriel and then grabbed Michael by the arm, dragging him to the kitchen. “I need to talk to you,” she muttered. Michael let himself be led away, but looked to Crowley in alarm to see if the demon would allow it. He didn’t, offering no rebuke and turning instead to Danielle.

     “So you’re the legendary Danielle Winchester,” he mused. “We never properly met when I crashed your little party before. My, my. You look just like your mother.”

     It was true. Though Danielle occupied her own form, she looked almost exactly like Mary; her hair only a shade lighter and she was a little shorter. “Yes, I’m Danielle,” she said with no hint of fear. “And you’re Crowley. King of Hell.” She was much better prepared to speak to him this time; he had taken her by surprise before and she had barely been able to get a word in edgewise.

     “Guilty.” The nod he gave her was one step away from a mockingly shallow bow.

     Danielle was pensive for a moment. “I have some questions about your deal.” An idea had formed in the back of her mind and she thought maybe she could use it to save Michael.

     “Always happy to talk about work,” he said politely, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Ask away.”

     She pursed her lips, trying to figure out how to phrase her question. “Michael’s service to you…only starts when he kills Zachariah, right?”

     Crowley chuckled. This Winchester seemed to be a thinker, more so than the other two, though admittedly, they didn’t set the bar very high. He gave her a nod of admiration for even attempting this conversation and pulled the contract from his jacket. He had anticipated someone trying to weasel Michael out of their arrangement, but he figured it would have been Lucifer. He read a section aloud, turning it slightly into her view so there was no doubt it was _ad verbatim_. “‘The service of Party B, Michael, to Party A, Crowley, shall begin upon the death of Party C, Zachariah,’” he stated triumphantly.

     “But Party B, Michael, didn’t kill nor inflict any injuries upon Party C, Zachariah. He simply neutralized him,” Danielle shot back. She thought for sure this would nullify the contract, as there was no longer a Zachariah around for Michael to kill, this indefinitely postponing the beginning of his service to the demon. She dared to hope she had found a loophole with the infamously clever King of Hell.

     “See here,” Crowley’s finger grazed a clause underneath one of the statements. “‘Party B, Michael, shall work to ensure the death of Party C, Zachariah.’ Not, ‘Party B, Michael, shall be directly responsible for the death of Party C, Zachariah.’ Besides, the original statement says simply that Michael works for me after Zach’s death, not his murder _by Michael_.” He grinned. “And let’s not forget, ‘Failure by Party B, Michael, to comply with the orders of Party A, Crowley, shall result in the immediate reversal of the spell used to separate Party E, Lucifer, from Party D, Gabriel.” He said this last bit as a warning, advising her not to try anything funny. “So, are we done here?”

     Danielle sighed in defeat. She glanced at the parchment being held in front of her, though she already knew Crowley was right. “Yes, alright.”

     “Thank you.” The demon gave a terse nod and looked to the doorway, through which Michael and Lucifer were returning. He approached them, his best semblance of a friendly smile on his face. Turning to Michael, he asked, “Shall we?”

     Lucifer answered in Michael’s place. “I _will_ kill you, Crowley. Mark my words.”

     “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” said Crowley absently, not even favouring the fallen angel with a look. He had eyes only for Michael, admiring the defeated slump of his shoulders and the broken look in his eyes.

     Michael, for whom the words were just registering, nodded slightly. “Yes, we shall,” he sighed, giving Danielle one last apologetic look. He couldn’t even meet Lucifer’s eyes.

     Danielle opened her mouth to say something, but Michael and Crowley had disappeared. They rematerialized in a decent-sized room dominated by a solid wooden desk at one end. The wood was stained dark, almost black, and the front panel was artfully carved in a pentagram in the midst of demonic symbols and which surrounded an intricately detailed goat’s skull. A fire was burning in the hearth behind the desk, and bottles of expensive alcohol stood along the mantelpiece, the many-faceted glass reflecting the firelight. Bookshelves lined the other walls, dark leather bound covers facing outwards. A round red rug took up most of the hardwood floor, matching the colour of the upholstery adorning the King’s chair, a high-backed piece tucked neatly behind the desk.

     Crowley made his way immediately over to the fireplace and poured a glass of scotch. Michael stood before the desk, head bowed and wings drooping, completely silent. He had already decided he would not speak unless spoken to, so the demon would have less opportunity to deride him, but it didn’t take long for him to be addressed.

     “So, Michael,” said Crowley, sitting in the plush red chair.

     “What do you require of me?” the angel asked dejectedly. He dared to look up, but Crowley seemed to be studying his glass, completely uninterested in making eye contact.

     “Thanks to that stint with Singer, the Winchester boys know who I used to be,” said Crowley with a grimace. “And the only way those idiots could have found out was because the information is clearly readily available. Now, I really don’t need anyone else gaining leverage over me—can’t be too careful—so what you’re going to do is erase every mention of Fergus MacLeod in existence. Got it?”

     Michael nodded with a small frown. Surely he was not needed for such a mundane task; the King of Hell had scores of demons each capable of doing it.

     As if reading his mind, the demon spoke up again. “And I don’t just mean on Earth. I’m sure there are records in Heaven as well.” Truth be told, he couldn’t really care less about the record of his name. His bones were safe, and no one would bother confronting him on who he used to be. This was a test of three things: how readily Michael followed orders, his speed in carrying said orders out, and how willing he was to betray Heaven. Crowley expected some reluctance, of course: it would be more fun that way.

     Michael nodded again, surprising the demon. “Of course. It will not take me long.” Crowley had mentioned that the Winchesters also held this information. “Shall I kill Sam and Dean as well?”

     “No.” Crowley waved his hand as if brushing off a fly. He was actually quite fond of the Winchester boys after working a few cases with them—albeit cases of global importance—but the angel didn’t need to know that. “I’ll kill them later. They may still be of use to me.”

     “I will return when I am finished,” said Michael, and promptly disappeared. He figured he would take care of Heaven first, getting the Terrestrial archives on the way back down. No one stood in his way; he was still the Sword of Heaven, and no one yet knew of his deal. If Metatron had been there to protect the records he had written, Michael might have had more difficulty, but he didn’t have to worry about the dead scribe. Once he was in, it was easy to erase any information about the Fergus MacLeod Crowley had been. On his way back down, all it took was a snap of the fingers for Earth records to disappear, and Michael considered stopping at the Hut to inform Lucifer and Danielle of his relative safety, but that same click in the back of his head warned him against it: no doubt Crowley had rigged the contract so that Michael would have to carry out orders immediately.* He kept an ear out as he passed, however, but he was gone too quickly to pick up on Lucifer and Danielle’s hushed conversation.

     “This is a mess,” Lucifer was saying, the rage around her almost palpable.

     “Which part of it are you talking about?” asked Danielle with a sigh. This whole thing was crazy, from Lucifer and Gabriel joining in the first place right up to killing Zachariah. Danielle was sure she would be going crazy at this point if she even took a second to sit down and really think about the situation.

     “I was actually talking about my vessel,” said Lucifer with distaste. “Leave it to Crowley to pick out a disaster.”

     “What do you mean?” Danielle was genuinely curious.

     “I mean, not only is this vampire filthy,” explained Lucifer, examining herself disgustedly, “she didn’t want me in here in the first place, which means I’m having a very hard time keeping hold of her.” The extra bit of Grace was helping, though.

     “I thought angels always needed permission,” said Danielle thoughtfully, then looked sharply at Lucifer. “You’re not filthy,” she protested, “just a little…disheveled.”

     “Usually, they do,” Lucifer grunted, trying to tug the knots out of her hair. She wasn’t really helping the cause, merely jerking her head uncomfortably as her fingers got stuck on the same spot over and over. “But I guess because I was slammed into the vessel…” Lucifer didn’t really understand how Crowley’s spell had worked and that just made her all the more frustrated—she hated not knowing.

     Danielle, who had been frowning at Lucifer’s efforts, approached the fallen angel and laid a hand on her arm. “Do you want some help?”

     “No,” Lucifer grumbled, but let her hands fall to her lap.

     “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” Danielle darted to the bathroom and re-emerged with a hairbrush, at which Lucifer rolled her eyes. “No.”

     Danielle ignored the angel, instead slowly working the brush through her vessel’s tangled hair. Lucifer had her lips pressed together, but said nothing. The tug of the brush through her hair caused some discomfort, but it wasn’t really painful. She was more embarrassed than anything else, though she had swallowed her pride enough not to protest.

     “Maybe Michael can find out how the spell worked,” Danielle suggested, returning to their previous conversation.

     “Michael’s a lost cause,” Lucifer scoffed. “Crowley’s got a tight hold on him, and Michael’s _fantastic_ at following orders, so…he’s not gonna help us.”

     Danielle wasn’t really a pessimist, so Lucifer’s statement triggered a troubled frown. “Well…maybe Crowley will tell you himself?”

     “The next time I see that son of a bitch, I’m going to smite him,” Lucifer spat vehemently. “And that’s a promise.”

     Michael, of course, did not hear any of this, speeding past much too quickly to pick anything up. He returned to Hell before Crowley had even finished his drink.

     The demon was pleasantly surprised. “That was quick,” he commented, setting the glass down and leaning forward with his elbows on the desk and his fingers intertwined.

     “Of course. I am an archangel of the Lord. Simple record removal is nothing difficult for me.” Michael stood before Crowley’s desk, arms crossed resolutely.

     “Indubitably,” said the demon dryly. “But that has no bearing on my comment, or the truth of it. I was merely making a remark.”

     Michael said nothing, not finding the comment worth answering. He simply looked down at the King, a dissatisfied grimace on his face. “What else do you require of me?” This was going to be a long eternity.

     “Have a seat,” Crowley offered. A chair appeared opposite him, similar to his own but in blue. He reached for the decanter on the mantle behind him and raised his eyebrows inquiringly at Michael. “Drink?”

     Michael was about to decline, but reconsidered; he might need it. The angel nodded almost imperceptibly and sat, accepting the proffered glass and draining it in one swallow.

     The demon laughed lightly at Michael’s volition—he was clearly already in a bad place, and this would just get more amusing as time went on—and the corner of his mouth quirked up. “So. What’s your story?”

 

_*“Subject B, Michael, shall carry out the orders of Subject A, Crowley, as soon as physically possible, without detours or dalliances.”_


	4. Castiel Reaches Majority

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danielle throws a far-fetched party and Michael tells a story that would make a Creationist's skin crawl; first look at Sammy!

     Danielle was busy. After being released form Zachariah, she felt an overwhelming sense of liberation, so much so that she had no idea what to do with herself. So she had decided to throw a party, though she had a bit of trouble deciding exactly what for. She figured a ‘Yay Your Abusive Mentor is Dead’ party was a little depressing. She couldn’t remember where she had heard it—probably up in Heaven—but she was quite sure that Castiel was reaching a milestone soon. It was the angelic equivalent of turning twenty-one in America, so far as she could tell. That seemed to be a pretty big deal for humans—other humans. She constantly had to remind herself that she was human too.

     Either way, planning a party for Castiel was giving her something to do. It was a learning experience for her, but she figured she was doing alright. There wouldn’t be many of them anyways: just her, Lucifer, and Castiel, plus the comatose Gabriel. The Winchester boys weren’t around, but it probably would have been awkward if they were. As for Michael…Danielle didn’t know where he stood on the matter: or rather, where Crowley stood on the matter. She decided to send a quick prayer to check. “Um, Michael?” she began, looking at the ceiling. “I…I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m holding a small celebration of Castiel’s majority age here at the Hut. If you can make it…I think it would mean a lot to him…” She bit her lip and looked down, feeling stupid. The party was a dumb idea anyways, and Michael had more important things to deal with. She sighed and shook her head, going back to decorating.

     As it happened, Michael did hear Danielle’s prayer, and he very badly wanted to go. But, as Danielle had predicted, he was a little busy. “My story?” he asked. “Why…do you want to know?”

    “Michael,” said Crowley with an exasperated sigh, “if we’re gonna work together for…ever…we should at least try to get along. I don’t even know who I’ve employed, really.”

     Michael frowned at Crowley’s word choice—employed. He knew his situation for what it was. “I am a slave.”

     “Only if you don’t co-operate,” Crowley countered. “I don’t want this to be an unpleasant experience for either of us.”

     “You have taken me from my family and forced me to work for a place whose morals go against the very fibre of my being. I hardly expect it to be pleasant.”

     Crowley hesitated, forced to admit that Michael was right. “Here. Have another drink,” he offered. “It might make things a little more bearable.” He refilled the angel’s glass, but had scarcely put the bottle back on the mantle before Michael had finished it.

     “Keep it on the desk,” the angel said tonelessly. “It seems we are both going to get good use of it.”

     Crowley raised his eyebrows, but refrained from commenting. He simply put the bottle off to the side of the desk, between the two of them. “Help yourself, then,” he offered. “The luxuries of Hell are yours.”

     “That does not apply to anything that could help me,” Michael remarked, but there was no vehemence in his voice: only weariness.

     “Of course not,” the demon answered, finished his own drink and pouring another. “But you’d have a hard time finding anything like that down here.”

     Michael nodded. “Of course not,” he repeated, staring moodily into his glass. He looked up with a resigned sigh. “Very well…what do you wish to know of me?” His eyes had to depth to them—they were dead, reflecting the light of Hell’s fire that seemed cold encircled in those green irises.

     “Everything,” said Crowley, leaning back in his chair and spreading his hands wide. “Anything. I dunno. Start at the beginning.”

     “The beginning…” said Michael in a faraway voice. The glass sheen over his eyes softened as he recalled earlier times. “I was my Father’s first,” the angel recalled. “He created me just after the Earth had been spun, but at that time it was simply a featureless globe of marbled water and land. He needed someone to watch over it while He made the others: Lucifer was next. It was his idea to touch the Earth, instead of watch it. Canyons and lakes sprang up where he pressed on it, and in trying to fix them I overcompensated, making mountains and hills. But Father wasn’t angry when He returned with out next brother, Raphael.” A faint smile played over his lips at a time when things were simple and peaceful. He had been happy then, simply because he had not known what unhappiness was.

     Though the story was fascinating, Crowley was watching Michael’s expression: in order to know someone, and to break them, one had to get to know them. Crowley knew in that instant that Michael’s weakness was his brothers, and his fatal flaw was loyalty.

     Michael didn’t seem to notice he was being scrutinized; he was lost in the past. “Raphael made the trees,” the archangel recalled. “He was terribly clever, figuring out how to make things sprout from the Earth. Though, I think Father gave him a hint.” Michael chuckled slightly, shaking his head fondly. “With Raphael busy tending to the plant life, Lucifer and I looked outwards, refining our arts by creating the stars. Each contains a bit of angel Grace, you know.”

     “I didn’t,” Crowley remarked, but Michael’s statement had rhetorical.

     “It was not long before Father created humans,” Michael recollected. “He said the three of us had made Earth so beautiful that it was unfair to see it so empty. He placed humans on the Earth, what humans were at the time, and let the three of us create other beings. He left for a very long time after that, but before He departed He gave to us a final brother—Gabriel. For millions of years, the four of us were all we had.” The angel sighed a bit, blinking back to reality for a moment.

     As much as Crowley was loath to admit it, he was hung on Michael’s every word, lips parted slightly as he listened in awe. He became self-aware and blinked out of it, taking a drink to soothe his nerves. “Go on,” he said casually, hoping not to sound too eager.

    “By the time Father returned, the humans had become nearly unrecognizable. They walked upright, covered themselves in the skins of other animals, and could communicate amongst themselves almost as angels could,” Michael continued, completely oblivious to the demon’s enrapt state. “But Father did not return alone; He brought with Him a host of angels, each with only a fraction of our power, and He gave them to us to teach. And when these angels knew all we did of the Earth and those it housed, Father called us all before Him. I remember it clearly: Raphael and Gabriel stood to the left of Father’s Throne while Lucifer and I stood to the right. Father announced that He had grown fond of the humans over the years, and that they had matured enough to understand now: we were to go to them, to serve them, and to love them.” Michael shook his head sadly. “Looking back on it now, I see that father was wrong: humans will never understand angels. I think Lucifer knew that even then. He became very angry, stepping around me to stand between Father and the Host.” Michael felt a sadness he had not known in years as he described Lucifer’s outrage. His brother had already been upset that their father had been away for so long, and then he felt as if he was being replaced.

     “I tried to reason with him, but he was beyond reason,” said Michael sadly. “And in the ensuing confusion, after Father forced me to cast Lucifer out…I had to take control.” I sighed. “I was not always so rigid, you know. It is simply that when one is responsible for many…in order to ensure their safety—”

     “You have to be harsh,” Crowley supplied, finding his voice again. “You have to enforce the rules, no exceptions. Because if you make even one, someone starts feeling special.”

     “…Yes,” said Michael in faint surprise. Not even his brothers had understood that. “How…?”

     “Trust me, Love,” Crowley said with a hint of sarcasm. “I know what it is to rule over a realm that is completely ignorant of your effort on their behalf.” 

     Michael blinked at the demon. He took a drink to delay speaking while he thought of the proper words. “A ruler cannot please every subject,” he began. “And so, it is best to keep the interests of the kingdom in mind.”

     “Even if it pleases nobody at all,” Crowley agreed, raising his glass respectfully to Michael before draining it. He realized that he had stopped analysing Michael’s weaknesses, perhaps because they were growing dangerously close to his own—aside from the family bit.

     “Precisely,” said Michael, mimicking the other’s actions. He was vaguely disturbed that a demon, of all things, had managed to grasp the concept of his entire existence in ten minutes better than his brothers had in millennia. He eyed the bottle of scotch tentatively. Angels couldn’t get drunk, not as easily as humans could, but this was strong stuff.

     “Please,” said Crowley indulgently. “You’re the one who wanted it there in the first place. What’s mine is yours,” he joked, mainly to rub in the fact that Michael was stuck there.

     The comment didn’t seem to bother the angel, however. He simply reached forward to refill his glass, ignoring Crowley’s green-gold gaze on him.

     “What about the Apocalypse?” the demon asked suddenly.

     “What about it?”

     “Why did you think it was such a good idea?” Crowley had first come into contacts with the Winchesters while trying to stop Michael’s kamikaze death duel with his brother.

     Michael thought for a moment. “Humans were the cause of strife between my brother and me,” he began slowly. “Perhaps I believed that the Apocalypse would make thinks right between us, once said humans were no longer an issue. I was seriously misguided.”

     “So you don’t believe the Apocalypse would be a good thing now?” Crowley asked, pouring himself yet another drink.

     “No.”

     “Good news for me,” the demon chuckled.

     “Oh.” Michael looked up. “Yes, I…suppose it would have been detrimental for you.”

     Crowley scoffed. “Ya think?”

     Michael finished his glass. “Crowley…” He hesitated. What was the worst that could happen if he asked? “I received a prayer from Danielle. It seems she is holding a celebration for Castiel’s Ascendence.”

     “Is that so? And?” Crowley was going to make Michael outright ask, even though he had already made a decision.

     “I was wondering…” Michael lifted his head proudly; he refused to be cowed. “I request attendance.”

     “Request granted,” said Crowley flippantly, “so long as you’re not going alone.”

     Michael hesitated: he felt it wouldn’t be fair to invite Crowley, but he wanted to see his brother. “Fine.”

     “I’ll be there in a moment. You had best get those wards down,” Crowley told him, and Michael promptly disappeared. As far as he could tell, only a few minutes had passed on Earth since Danielle had finished the prayer.

     “Danielle?” Michael said from mere feet behind her as she tried to hang streamers, which she dropped, startled.

     “Michael! You made it!” She climbed down off the stepladder. “How did you convince Crowley?”

     “You have to take down the demon wards,” Michael said by way of answer, looking at her apologetically.

     Danielle had a moment of panic. “Why?”

     “Crowley expects to be here,” Michael told her, “and I do not know what he will do if he is denied entry. I am sorry.”

     Dani nodded. “I-it’s alright. Um…Lucifer is in the living room and Castiel said he’d be here soon. I don’t know if Sam and Dean are coming.” Danielle had never actually met her brothers, but she had told Castiel that they were more than welcome.

     Michael attempted to hide his grimace. “Yes. Of course. Castiel is very close with the Winchesters.”

     Danielle nodded again. “You’ve met them, right?”

     Michael pressed his lips together and inclined his head in a slight affirmative, but was fortunately spared answering by the arrival of Castiel, who showed up in the kitchen and walked out. “Hello, Danielle. Michael, you look well.”

     “Thank you,” said Michael graciously. He glanced urgently at Danielle who jumped into action, taking down the demon wards. This seemed to concern Cas.

     “What are you doing?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head with a frown.

     “I apologize, Castiel,” said Michael softly. “Crowley will be here shortly.”

     Cas was silent for a moment, then his brow smoothed out. “There exist things much worse than Crowley.” He strolled around the living room with his hands behind his back, examining the decorating Dani had done. “This is…very tasteful,” he commented, though he had to idea about which decorations were tasteful.

     Danielle, however, was extremely reassured by the compliment. “Thank you, Castiel. I’m glad you like it.” She nodded and turned as Lucifer came downstairs, a scowl deep on her face which was residual from worrying over Gabriel.

     “Castiel,” she greeted. The last time they had met, it had not been on good terms, but she figured she had more important things to worry deal with now. “Happy majority.”

     “Thank you.” Castiel inclined his head. “You switched vessels,” he remarked.

     “Yes, that was Crowley’s fault,” said Lucifer with distaste, “which, by extension, was Michael’s fault.”

     Danielle filled Cas in on the details of Crowley and Michael’s deal before either archangel present could present a biased version. Castiel listened intently, fixing Michael with a long look when Danielle had finished, and nodded once slowly. “I would have done much the same.”

     “What?” Lucifer hissed dangerously. Here she had thought that Castiel had learned about being stupid after all his mistakes, but clearly not.

     “Michael did what he did to protect his family,” explained Castiel, “to save you and Gabriel. That is admirable.”

     Michael gave Lucifer a superior look as Cas continued, “As I said, there are things worse than Crowley.”

     “Like me,” said Lucifer. “When that bastard shows up here, I’m gonna smite him. No one screws with my family except me.”

     “Do not,” Michael entreated immediately. “Crowley would order me to protect him and you know I can best you, brother.”

     “I don’t,” Lucifer shot back. “That was the whole point of the Apocalypse.”

     “Regardless,” Michael supplied.

     “Fine. First chance I get though.”

     “I think we should celebrate Castiel,” said Dani, “since today is about him.”

     “I assure you that’s—” Cas began.

     “—an excellent plan!” came Crowley’s voice from by the front door. “Happy birthday of a sort, Castiel. And hello all.” The demon stepped towards the group, undaunted by the menacing look Lucifer was giving him.

     “Party’s over,” she muttered.

     “Nonsense,” Crowley scolded. He produced a box from his jacket and handed it to Castiel.

     “What is the meaning of this?” Michael asked, looking at Crowley in surprise and Cas in suspicion.

     “Relax; we’re not in kahoots,” Crowley assured, rolling his eyes. “I just know it’s very rude to arrive at a party unwanted, late, _and_ empty-handed. So I settled for two of the three.”

     “How thoughtful,” Lucifer grumbled.

     “Thank you,” said Cas, beginning to unwrap the box. He was stopped by Michael’s gentle touch on his wrist.

     “Be careful,” the archangel warned. He didn’t know if Crowley was bold enough to plant something dangerous against so many enemies at once. Castiel however, removed his wrist and proceeded. As he looked into the box, a soft glow illuminated his face—hues of blues and greens danced upon his complexion.

     “What is it?” asked Danielle, standing on her toes to look over Cas’ shoulder. Her eyes widened in wonder as the angel gently removed two glass spheres from the box. Peering inside, she could see small figures moving about on an ever-changing background.”

     “Sam and Dean have both been to Hell,” said Crowley quietly, almost reverently. “And believe me, that place drains you of everything you hold dear. But—” Here he paused for dramatic effect— “I managed to find some of the Winchesters’ happy thoughts floating around…I thought you might want them. I certainly don’t. Give them back if you want, or keep them,” he added flippantly, trying to pretend he had never cared about the boys.

     Castiel looked at the demon in astonishment. “Th…thank you,” he said, surprisingly touched by the gesture. He wasn’t sure if Crowley was aware exactly how important this was to him. Tucking the globes inside his coat, he resolved to look at them later and return them to their owners after that.

     “Don’t mention it,” said Crowley, who really didn’t want the word getting out, lest it tarnish his reputation, which had just gotten repaired at the news of his latest deal.

     A heavy silence fell, through which Lucifer appeared furious, Michael looked resigned, and Castiel seemed even more uncomfortable than usual. Eventually, Danielle spoke up with forced cheer. “Anyone want a drink?”

     “Yes,” came four relieved voices at once, which made Danielle start in surprise. She hurried off to the kitchen and returned with her arms full of bottles.

     “I…didn’t know what everyone wanted…” she began, but her sentence trailed off into a shout of surprise as one of the bottles appeared suddenly in Lucifer’s hand.

     “Don’t care,” said the angel, cracking the top. She took a long drink, welcoming the soothing burn.

     Slightly taken aback, Danielle set the other bottles on the table top to avoid dropping them. The scotch immediately disappeared, claimed by Crowley. “Cheers,” he said, taking a drink and then passing the bottle to Michael, whom he was standing beside.

     “Danielle,” Castiel turned to the hunter. “Did you invite your brothers?”

     “Yes,” said Danielle nervously. “But I’m afraid I wasn’t terribly clear in my message…”

     “If you’ve never met, how did you contact them?” Cas wondered. Humans didn’t have an Angel Radio.

     “Most hunters know how to reach them,” said Dani, “but I got their numbers from a man named Bobby Singer. He seemed to know them well.”

     “Yes…” said Castiel with a fond smile at about the same time Crowley laughed.

     “Back from Heaven, is he? I suppose death didn’t suit him,” the demon chuckled. “Good! I missed the clever old bastard.”

     “He doesn’t like you,” Castiel informed him.

     “No one does,” Crowley shot back with a wink.

     Lucifer snorted. “Amen.” Suddenly, she smiled. “Well, one of them got the memo. If it isn’t little Sammy.” She had felt the presence of his soul; all the angels had, but only Lucifer had spoken up.

     Sam was currently approaching the door to the Hut. He had gotten Danielle’s message and decided to check it out against Dean’s advice. He was cautious, however—he knew this could be a trap. With an angel blade in one hand, Sam knocked with the other. He shifted from foot to foot, knees bent, as he heard someone come to the door.

     Sam was surprised and immediately relieved when a petite blonde opened the door. “Mom?” he said in confusion, then shook his head. “No, sorry. You must be Danielle.” He had dealt with stranger things than a long lost sister. “Glad it’s not a trap,” he chuckled, sheathing the blade.

     “Um, hi,” Danielle said in a small voice. Nervousness made her talk less where it made Sam talk more. “Yes, yes, I’m Danielle. Um…you’re Sam, right?”    

     “Yeah.” Sam held out his hand for her to shake, then peered around her. “So…Cas is here?”

     “Oh, yes!” Danielle hastily let go of Sam’s hand and stepped inside to let him pass. “He’s inside.”

     Sam walked in and smiled at Cas. His gaze skipped Lucifer, not recognizing her vessel, and landed on Michael. “D-Dad?”

     Michael hastily shook his head, but it was Crowley who stepped forward and spoke. “Michael, actually. But I think young John Winchester suits him well.”

     “What the Hell?” Sam exclaimed, subconsciously stepping closer to Castiel.

     “Hullo to you too, Moose,” Crowley huffed. “Long story, really. Maybe your good friend Luci can fill you in.” He gestured to the woman behind Sam, causing him to turn around wide-eyed and terrified. Danielle immediately sensed that she had made a mistake on account of something she must have missed.

     “Lucifer…” Sam whispered, already pale. Castiel stepped protectively in front of him, but Lucifer waved a hand.

     “No need. You’re not on my hit list this week, bunk buddy. It’s all him.” She gestured to Crowley.

     “And _that_ ,” said Crowley distastefully, “is our cue. Come on, Love.” He grinned at Sam before disappearing with Michael.

     The bulb of a currently unused lamp burst and Lucifer clenched her jaw. “I’m going to check on Gabriel,” she stated, making it clear that she didn’t want to be followed. Gabe had been moved to one of the bedrooms upstairs, which meant he would be less likely to be disturbed. Letting out a noise of frustration, Kucifer sank onto the edge of his bed.

     “Well, Gabe,” she said blandly. “The Wincheseters are involved. The bad ones. Also—” She rested a hand on his chest, over where his Grace resided—  “I got some of your juice. Spell must’ve messed up. Leave it to Crowley.” Contemplating for a moment, she added: “Maybe we can get Heaven to send down a healer. A Seraphim, even.” The high-ranking healers could fix almost anyone. She stayed like that for a while, her eyes blank as she stared out the window.

     Downstairs, Sam looked between Dani and Cas frantically. “Please tell me what’s going on,” he whispered.

     “Have a seat, Sam,” Cas said soothingly, knowing that usually helped humans.

     “There’s a lot to tell…” Danielle supplied.

     Sam nodded resolutely, taking a shaky breath to compose himself as he sat on the couch. “Everything. Tell me everything.”


	5. They Get Drunk and Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael manages to get a story out of Crowley, who finds out shortly after that he has more enemies than he thought. Danielle tries to comfort a distraught Lucifer, who only gets more upset as the night progresses.

     Sam had been visibly shaken at all of the news Danielle had given him. He had practically bolted for the door when he heard Lucifer’s soft footsteps coming back down the stairs. Castiel, too, had mumbled a reason for his disappearance an instant before executing it.

     Danielle sighed and turned to Lucifer. “How’s Gabriel?”

     “No change,” Lucifer grunted, settling herself on the couch beside Danielle. She again summoned the bottle of vodka to her hand. “Can’t help but think this is all my fault.”

     “No,” Danielle argued. “I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. You’re all doing what you’re meant to do. Michael is making impulsive decisions to protect his family; Crowley is making self-serving deals that make him more powerful; and you…you’re opposing everybody. But it’s your nature, so none of you can be blamed.”

     Lucifer was silent for a few beats, taking a long pull from the bottle. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you suck at consolation. But damn, can you drive a guy to drink.”

     “Um…sorry?” Danielle looked down at her hands. “Look, Lucifer…I know you’ve done bad stuff—”

     “Please. I’m the original ‘bad stuff.’”

     “—but so has everyone else. You don’t have to be the one to take all the blame if you don’t want to.”

     “Danielle,” Lucifer said patiently, putting the bottle down and examining her nails. “I’m the Devil.” That settled the argument, as far as she was concerned. “And now I’m gonna go for a walk, before I burn something down.” She disappeared.

     Dani sighed; despite the suffering she had experienced at the hands of Zachariah—or perhaps _in spite_ of it—Danielle wanted to help everyone, if she could see what they were really made of. Given the right words and time, maybe she could get Lucifer to see her own worth. “Oh, Michael,” she sighed. “I wish you could see how much Lucifer loves you. It’s what makes this all so _hard_.” She had no idea if Michael could hear her, but she hoped he took comfort in the fact that someone cared.

     Michael heard Danielle’s words the way he hears every prayer addressed to him. He tried to send out some wave of comfort, but it was hard though the many layers of Hell.

     “Still tuned into Angel Radio?” Crowley asked, noting the look of concentration on Michael’s face.

     “Personal prayers,” said Michael pointedly. “People who _need_ me.”

     “You never answered them before,” Crowley returned flippantly. “They only _need_ you when it’s convenient for you. Funny how angels work that way.”

     Michael stiffened in his seat, his jaw clenched. “You’re lying.”

     “Am I?”

     “That is what demons do.”

     Crowley actually laughed then. Out of sheer force of habit, he reached behind him for a bottle of whatever, despite the fact he had already imbibed more than his usual quantity. “Perhaps. Or maybe, no one believes us when we tell the truth.”

     Michael had to give that fair consideration. Having a reputation as liars meant that demons could get away with saying most anything, even if it was the truth. “Perhaps,” he agreed reluctantly. He held out his hand for the bottle, which made Crowley raise his eyebrows.

     “Can your celestial constitution bear it?” he mocked.

     “Please,” said Michael, suddenly remembering that he was still under Crowley’s command.

     Crowley rolled his eyes and handed it over; it was no fun if the angel didn’t fight back.

     After serving himself, Michael looked at the demon. He decided that now was as good a time as any to test his limits. “Your turn,” he challenged.

     “What?”

     “I told you my past, now you ought to tell me yours,” Michael said proudly.

     Crowley chuckled. “That’s not how it works, Love.”

     “If we’re going to be working together for the next forever,” Michael quoted, “we should at least try to get along. I do not even know by whom I’ve been employed.”

     The King of Hell raised his glass in a respectful salute. “Touché. You want me to start at the beginning, I take it?”

     “Please do,” the angel offered graciously.

     “Don’t think this puts you in charge,” Crowley grumbled. “Very well…my father was a wealthy tailor who had an affair with my poor whore mother. Upon finding out she was with child, he left her and she gave birth to me alone in a barn. About a year later, when she had managed to raise herself up enough to live in a small dilapidated house, he came crawling to our doorstep, begging her to take him back. He had drunk his money away and his wife had left him in the dirt.” Thus far, his tone was blunt and almost bored sounding, as if the entire story was burdensome. To him it was, but Michael thought that perhaps he was trying to show just _how little_ it affected him.

     “Anyways, my mother sold his soul within the next year,” Crowley continued. “She was a witch, my dear old hag was, but even her ‘gift’ couldn’t raise her up from poverty. She summoned the demon and struck up the deal, and he was none the wiser. She only told me what she had done after he disappeared.”

     “I had no idea it was possible to sell another’s soul,” Michael mused.

     “Demons enjoy cleverness and wickedness, and that was both,” Crowley explained. “What she got from the deal was a large house on a hill above the village, as well as her name mentioned to the Grand Coven and a steady stream of questionable customers. And so,” he shrugged, “I grew up in the lap of luxury. Well…more like below the ankles of luxury, but I think you get it.”

     Both of them had been drinking during the exchange, and would continue to so until it was over. “Then again,” the demon amended, “perhaps not, seeing as you’re a prince.”

     “Was it not that she abandoned you for the Coven?” Michael asked. “Fleeing the village from the witch-burners?”

     Crowley set his glass down—hard. “ _I’m_ telling the story!” he barked, and the fireplace flared.

     “Apologies,” Michael deferred with a nod. “Go on.”

     “When I was eight years old, Rowena finally got her summons from the Grand Coven, just as the townspeople were starting to grow suspicious of her activities. She left my drunken sot of a father to raise me indefinitely, though she was only gone for three years. Apparently, the Coven had found her work ‘disturbing and insubordinate,’ so she decided to take her chances with us. Her magic had grown strong enough by then that she either enchanted or intimidated the townspeople into forgetting their threats.”

     A steady frown had been growing on Michael’s face as Crowley recounted his story: it was not a pleasant one. Michael could well understand how Crowley had found enough hatred and anger to gain so much power.

     “Once the proverbial cat was out of the bag regarding her profession,” Crowley continued, his voice jarring Michael from his ruminations, “Rowena figured she might as well teach me her craft so I wouldn’t be completely useless to her. She started the night after I heard the hounds take my father. Poor bastard was too drunk to even scream.” His tone was anything but pitiful. “So not only did I pick up my father’s business at the ripe young age of twelve, I also became a witch’s apprentice. Mother got a new husband in exactly sixty-three days and tried for years to have a daughter; it turned out that her youth and beauty spells made her infertile. So she had to make do with me…for the time.

     “Now, I was a smart lad and I knew that Rowena had sold my father’s soul. I figured she would sell mine for a baby girl and wanted to do so before she could.” He grinned over at Michael, very self-satisfied. “So I made a deal with a very nice demon who gave me twenty years instead of ten—again for cleverness—and returned home to rub it in her face. She married me off to a bitch worse than herself the next year, where I lived out my days in an alcohol-induced stupor before the hounds came for me at thirty-seven. The rest, as they say, is history.” He spread his hands wide, giving the story the dramatic ending it needed.

     Michael considered his words before speaking. The story had had an effect on him. On impulse, he would have said he pitied the demon, but it was something different than that. It was as if the entire world had been against Crowley from the moment he was born, yet he had not only thrived but triumphed. He was the King of Hell, and Michael was afraid for a moment that he admired him. To try to divert such sacrilegious thoughts, the angel asked simply: “What did you get in return?”

     “Hm?”

     “For what did you sell your soul?”

     “Oh.” Crowley grinned. “Wanna see?”

     Michael had stopped paying attention, however, his attention transfixed on a single feather floating towards the ground. “No…” he whispered in horror, then looking up at Crowley desperately. “What did you do?”

     This time at least, Crowley hadn’t done anything. “Are you…moulting?” he asked with a mixture of wariness and wonder.

     Michael buried his face in his hands and groaned. By way of answer, he spread his wings, causing a small shower of feathers to float lazily towards the hardwood. Angels had six wings, but without a conscious effort on their part, only two were visible to demons. Humans couldn’t see any. As such, there were many more feathers on the floor than Crowley would have attributed to just two wings. He bent to pick one up, studying it carefully. “It’s blue,” he remarked. Indeed, Michael’s feathers were a blue so pale that they appeared white, their true shade only visible upon meticulous inspection. When the angel remained silent, he spoke again: “Why are you moulting?”

     “I’m nesting,” said Michael shamefully, his voice muffled by his hands. “When an angel is becoming accustomed to a new location as home, we nest. It is disgusting. You do not want to see me like this.” Truthfully, Michael did not want to be _seen_ like this; nesting was usually reserved for fledglings and was indeed a messy process.

     Crowley vaguely remembered reading about something like this, but he had quickly dismissed it as unimportant. Presently he reached out a hand to graze Michael’s wing, an intense frown between his brows. The angel intook a sharp breath and pulled his wing away, looking up at Crowley in startlement. “I would not do that if I were you,” he warned.

     “I’ll do whatever I want,” Crowley mumbled. “Hold still.” Even though it hadn’t been an order, Michael complied, sighing in resignation.

     Standing up to better reach, Crowley leaned over the desk and laid the flat of his palm against the angel’s wing. He was surprised at how soft the feathers were: he knew that they could become razor-sharp in battle. Michael shivered, but held still. Never before had anyone touched his wings, and he could have stopped Crowley if he had wanted to. Most of him wanted to; the rest of him waited with bated breath for the demon’s next move.

     Crowley was about to say something, but the familiar tugging in his gut stopped him. He rolled his eyes and straightened abruptly—this was the worst possible time. “Be back in a flash, Love,” he quipped. “Don’t wreck the place while I’m gone.”

     Following Crowley’s disappearance, Michael issued a groan of frustration that rose to a shout. He beat his wings once and the ensuing gust of air extinguished the fire. Surrounded by darkness, the angel clenched his fists as he felt his feathers rain down on him. He stood quietly and tucked his wings behind his back, trying to regain some semblance of control; the raging itch soon drove him to unfurl them again, pressing uncomfortably against the bookshelves. He felt the urge to tear at them, but he knew that would do him more harm than good. But he had to tear something, and the closest unfortunate victims were the books, which he wasted no time in shredding. The bookshelves were toppled in an effort to reach all of their contents.

     The next few minutes seemed to blur for the archangel. One moment he was rifling through age-stained pages and the next he had collapsed onto the pile the shreds had made, freely weeping and raking his fingers through his wings. His feathers added to the pile and Michael curled up in their midst, suddenly lacking the energy to move. He wondered vaguely what Crowley would do to punish him when he returned, but was in too much discomfort to fully care.

     Crowley, of course, had no idea what was going on in his office, since he was in a bit of a predicament himself.

     “Your people killed him!” the woman hissed. A surge of power flew from her to slam the King of Hell into a tree. “I want to know why! He was just a kid, for God’s sake!” Furious tears flowed down her face, of which she wasn’t even aware.

     Lucy Agabon rarely used her powers, because they scared even her. Being a cambion, a half-demon, she was already powerful. But upon killing her family, a demon named Anastasia had told her that she was the Antichrist: a position which had been passed to her after her predecessor had caused his own demise. Lucy had no idea why the powers had been passed to her, nor did she care. She had almost forgotten about them with the birth of her son, Jace. When he had been killed by demons, her powers had resurged and she had tortured the name of the boss from one lackey. The murderer himself had gotten away, but the whole group had allegedly been under the employ of one Crowley. Lucy had been hunting him for about a year and now that he was finally at her mercy, she could finally have her revenge.

     Even in the predicament his current predicament, Crowley prided himself on playing it cool. “My people kill a lot of people,” he said, ignoring the invisible vice that held him in place. “To whom are you referring?”

     “His name was Jace,” she hissed. “He was fourteen years old! He had nothing to do with demons!”

     Crowley grimaced. “Did he make a deal?”

     That was the wrong thing to say. That this creature could even suggest that her son was capable of such a thing renewed Lucy’s rage. She tightened her grip on Crowley. “No. It was cold-blooded murder.”

     “Well, that—” It was becoming difficult to properly speak— “just won’t do.” Normally, Crowley wouldn’t have cared. What did it matter to him that someone had gone and killed a human? However, he was rather fond of his life and had no doubt that this woman could kill him.

     Lucy relaxed to be able to let him speak. “What?”

     Crowley cleared his throat before he explained: “Demons,” he lied on the spot, “have a very strict discipline system. They kill who and when they’re told, no other time. Otherwise, there’d be no humans left. I don’t know who killed your Jace, but I do know every demon in Hell. So if you’d like to find the guilty party, perhaps a deal can be arranged.”

     Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Not your way.”

     The King of Hell shrugged one shoulder. It had been worth a shot.

     “Tell you what,” said Lucy. “I don’t kick your ass right here and now, and you get me what I need to know.” As much as she hated to admit it, the task would be much easier for him than her. Besides, if he went back on it she could just find and kill him later. “Name and location.”

     “Done,” said Crowley, congratulating himself on his own cleverness. “I’d shake your hand, but…”

     She dropped him.

     “Thank you.” He dusted himself off and took a step backwards. “You’ll hear from me.”

     Michael sighed as he felt the demon’s presence once more. Crowley said nothing, having found himself suddenly in the dark, surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small cyclone. “I think,” he remarked, “the one thing I said was, ‘don’t wreck the place.’”

     Michael groaned, not even bothering to look up. Every time he moved, more feathers would rain down from his wings, so he tried to keep still.

     With a wave of his hand, Crowley set the hearth ablaze once more. Not only had all of his furniture been toppled and pushed aside, his books were no more and the stuffing had been ripped from his chairs. The angel was sitting in a pile of anything soft he had been able to find, though most of that was hidden beneath a thick layer of blue-white feathers. There were still plenty left on Michael’s wings, but Crowley could see a darker colour peeking out beneath them. “You’ve certainly gotten yourself into a predicament, haven’t you?”

     “I do not wish to be seen like this,” Michael muttered, though he had learned by now that this would not deter the demon.

     “No, I don’t imagine so. You’re positively…undone.” There was an odd note in Crowley’s voice that made Michael glance up. As he did so, he glimpsed his own wing from the corner of his eye and nearly fell into despair once more. The feathers were black.

     “I am ruined,” he sighed resignedly.

     “Why?” Crowley would have taken a seat, but the chairs had been destroyed. He instead lowered himself to the floor, sitting on the edge of the pile—nest, he supposed.

     Michael shifted away from Crowley, shaking loose more feathers. The itch was gone, but now it was a matter of finishing the moult. “Black wings mean an angel has fallen,” he said. Heaven was everything to him: he was supposed to keep it safe until his Father returned. Now he was out of favour.

     “So what?” said Crowley dismissively, moving closer to examine Michael’s wings. This was a process he was not likely to view again. “Maybe it’s just because you’re moulting in Hell,” he quipped. “All the brimstone in the air.”

     Michael beat his wings in anger, nearly extinguishing the fire again. “This is a serious matter!” He wanted to smite Crowley, who was acting like this was a joke.

     “I know.” Michael last motion had caused some of the detached feathers to get caught in the quills of the new ones. He began pulling these out, but Michael turned to him sharply.

     “What are you doing?” the angel snapped.

     “I want you in top shape for the business of Hell,” Crowley explained, moving around behind Michael so the wings couldn’t be pulled out of his reach. “As soon as possible. So I plan on getting you out of this rut.”

     “How generous,” Michael said dryly.

     “Hey, if we’re gonna work together for the next forever…” Crowley grinned even though Michael couldn’t see it. He had no idea why he was enjoying himself so much. Maybe because this was supposed to be Heaven’s absolute. Maybe because he had drank enough to affect even him.

     “Shut up.” Michael didn’t care about punishment at this point. Nesting was torture enough.

     Crowley _tsk_ ed as he set once more to pulling old feathers out. “That’s no way to speak to your King.” Michael didn’t answer, too miserable to care. He also didn’t move his wings, simply because the effort was futile. He allowed himself to space out, staring into the fire. If he didn’t think about it, he was able to forget that a _demon_ was grooming his wings. This was something that happened between brothers, as fledglings, and later on between lovers, for the few angels who took them. It was extremely personal, but if Michael mentioned that Crowley would probably have just mocked him.

     Crowley was growing frustrated with the soft down stuck at the base of Michael’s wings. The discarded feathers were impossible to get out, and Crowley resorted to raking his fingers through them to pull them free. He stopped his actions and frowned as Michael’s shoulders relaxed, an audible sigh coming from the angel.

     “Are you feeling faint?” he asked, his voice roughly drawing Michael from his daze.

     “No,” the archangel replied coldly, sitting up straight again. He was embarrassed, both that he had been enjoying the demon’s ministrations and that he had allowed it to show. He ruffled his feathers haughtily, trying not to look at them.

     Crowley chuckled, patting Michael on the shoulder patronizingly from behind. “Alright.” He didn’t sound like he believed him at all. Michael was prepared to turn and reprimand him once the pressure of his hand had lifted, but it never did. It seemed like Crowley was planning on pulling away once, but decided against it.

     “They’re not black,” Crowley said into the silence, moving his hand only to run both along the tops of the angel’s wings. “They’re still blue.” Indeed, just as Michael’s wings had been the faintest blue before, they were the darkest blue now, black to the casual observer.

     The statement made Michael feel marginally better, but he wasn’t about to give the demon the satisfaction of knowing it. “They are still hideous.” That much was true, at least.

     Crowley snorted, both of his hands once again on Michael’s shoulders. He had a firm grip, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. “Angels aren’t ugly. They’re the _definition_ of beauty.” He sounded bitter even to his own ears.

     “Some are more beautiful than others,” Michael argued, folding his wings neatly behind him.

     “Archangels,” said Crowley pointedly. Unconsciously, he began rubbing Michael’s shoulders, working out the tension with his thumbs. It gave him something to do with his hands.

     “Y—” Michael’s response was cut off in a grunt of pleased surprise. He never really considered the comfort of his vessel, and ignored the aches that plagued the fragile human body. He was surprised to discover they affected him too. “Yes, Lucifer among us.” No matter what vessel an angel took, other angels and demons could always see their true faces. The same was true of demons, though because of their inherent ugliness they often tried to possess attractive vessels.

     “The Morning Star,” Crowley quoted, sounding unimpressed.

     “God’s favourite,” Michael confirmed. “His most beautiful creation, besides humanity.”

     “And would you believe that? Both are corrupt,” Crowley remarked cynically. He had noticed a few knots in the muscles of Michael’s wins during the grooming, and he moved to massage these out; now that he had started the job, he couldn’t leave it unfinished. “Lucifer’s too perfect,” he continued. “Like a statue or a doll. Makes people uncomfortable.” Actually, Lucifer making people uncomfortable had nothing to do with his looks, but Crowley was more than a little biased in that judgement

     “No.” Michael sighed. “He is absolute perfection.”

     “Are you jealous?” Crowley asked, his voice dripping with amusement. When Michael didn’t answer, he laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said patronizingly, “you’re pretty too.”

     Michael again felt a jolt of anger. He jerked his wings from the demon’s hands. What had he expected, besides derision? He turned to glare at Crowley, eyes flashing. “You mock me one too many times!”

     Crowley held up his hands defensively. “For once, I wasn’t mocking anybody,” he said in faint surprise at Michael’s reaction.

     The Grace-blue in Michael’s eyes faded back to green. “Lies,” he said. That was what demons did, and this was their King. Michael would do well to remember that.

     Now it was Crowley who grew angry. “I’m lying because you don’t like what I have to say?” he scoffed. “That’s not how it works.”

     Michael was about to protest, but Crowley was right. “You sounded very condescending,” he pointed out.

     “Oh, yes,” said Crowley cheerfully. “I always do; it covers up real emotions very well.” He hadn’t meant to say that.

     Michael raised his eyebrows. “And it is said that one learns something new every day. That was a foolish thing to say.” They were, after all, still enemies.

     Crowley had just been thinking that himself, and wondered why he had lost control like that; among demons, that was a fatal error. Moodily, he put his hands on Michael’s wings once more: it was a personal challenge to finish now. The angel said nothing as he did this; both had resigned themselves to it.

     “It has been said that demons can neither appreciate nor even see beauty,” Michael stated. He was asking, of course, for the purpose of gathering information and not because the alcohol had left him craving conversation.

     “Well whoever said that is talking out of their ass,” said Crowley with a slight grunt as he tackled a particularly stubborn knot. “Demons can see what’s right in front of them perfectly fine.”

     “I did not know that,” Michael admitted, spreading his wings so Crowley could reach everywhere.

     “You ought to,” said Crowley, then muttering something.

     “What was that?”

     “I said—” Crowley sounded annoyed— “‘I mean, look at you, seducing a demon.’”

     Michael grimaced, turning halfway around and letting his wings droop to the nest. “I am not seducing anyone. Lust is a sin.”

     Crowley regarded him impassively, but he was panicking inside. Perhaps he could get away with pretending he hadn’t said that. He simply shrugged, but Michael would not give up so easily. “What did you mean by that?”

     The demon rolled his eyes. “Bloody _Hell_ , angels are thick. I mean—” He reached up to place a hand on Michael’s cheek and lowered his voice. “Demons are sinners.” Though he was screaming mentally at himself to stop, Crowley leaned forward and kissed the angel—gently, not the kind of kiss he used to seal deals.

     Michael was slow to realize what was happening, probably because of his earlier consumption of alcohol. He gasped, pulling away, and Crowley’s hand dropped. Michael blinked at the demon uncomprehendingly, but didn’t move. He was still sitting mostly with his back to Crowley, his shoulders and head turned. He could well imagine the shocked expression in his eyes as he looked into the demon’s, which held nothing but stubborn resolution.

     It was too late to back out now. Without even thinking, Crowley ran the backs of his knuckles over one of Michael’s wings before gently grabbing it, his other hand coming around to rest on his upper thigh. He was positive that he didn’t imagine the angel leaning into him, nor that the second time they kissed, it was _Michael_ who did it.

     Every fibre in Michael’s being should have been shrieking for him to stop. Indeed, most were, but Michael’s control had been shattered by a multitude of factors. He surrendered to the situation, progressing awkwardly. He had never been touched before—barely been touched by anyone, actually—and was horrified to discover that he was enjoying it.

     Unlike Michael, Crowley knew very well what he was doing and quickly took control, guiding the angel along. Michael didn’t resist, and he somehow found himself lying beneath the demon, feeling pleasure in ways he hadn’t even known existed. His awareness of anything but Crowley was rapidly diminishing, though he heard himself whispering breathlessly in Enochian on more than one occasion.

     When the demon took him, Michael cried out both aloud and mentally. No words formed in his mind, only a wave of colours both preceding and proceeding Crowley’s name. The sensation was so strong that it escaped the confines of Michael’s mind, thin traces of it travelling down the cerebral corridors.

     Lucifer looked up from where she was sitting on the roof of a high-rise building. “What the Hell…?” The faint energy coming from her brother was something she had never felt from him before, and she focused to try to make sense of it. She immediately wished she hadn’t. In a blind rage and having nowhere else to go, she teleported back to the room in which Gabriel was resting. She knew he could hear it too: the idiot wasn’t just projecting loudly; he was projecting over _Angel Radio_. Lucifer screamed in frustration.

     Gabriel heard her shout. He also heard Michael, and it was the one time he wished he was more unconscious. He couldn’t see anything, and he was glad for that—only the mental ecstasy was being shared—but no one would have any doubt as to what was happening. Trapped in his comatose state, Gabriel couldn’t even distract himself with something else and was beyond relief when his brother’s thoughts quieted and faded out.

     Michael opened his eyes, even the light of the fire seeming dim compared to the colours that had been exploding in his head. He was aware of the demon’s weight and warmth beside, but both were breathing too heavily to speak. The archangel let his eyes drift closed again, merely meaning to compose himself, but when the adrenaline wore off his entire body felt heavy.

     Neither angels nor demons need sleep, and most choose not to, but Crowley and Michael both drifted off silently, the angel’s head rolling sideways in his slumber to rest against the demon’s shoulder. His wings were spread, one stretched out under Crowley and the other draped over them both. The firelight glinted off his darkened feathers until it burned down to coals, leaving the two immortal beings cloaked in gloom.


End file.
